fear of public speaking be damned.
She was shaking again, her fingers squeezing so tight he heard one of his knuckles crack. But she kept her other trembling hand high in the air, gaze pinned to Brindle’s nearest roaming flunky with a microphone.
The tie-clad young man—a Young Republican from Marysburg University?—caught her eye, gave a little nod, and headed their way.
Her breath hitched, and her fingers spasmed around his.
When the kid leaned over, his outstretched hand holding the microphone, Elizabeth slowly, clumsily rose to her feet. James expected her to disentangle their hands at that point, but she didn’t. And he wasn’t letting go until he knew she was okay, whether that happened in a minute or an hour.
So he scooted forward in his chair so she didn’t have to lean to the side and held her hand as she spoke into the microphone, her voice quavering.
“My name is Elizabeth Stone, and I’m a lifelong resident of Marysburg. My question concerns your stance on healthcare.” She licked her chapped lips. “I’m very concerned about—”
“Let me stop you for a moment, Ms. Stone.” The congressman held up a hand. “I want to be clear that I understand the importance of healthcare to Virginians and all Americans. Every time I hear the story of an innocent child’s illness driving a family into bankruptcy, I grieve more than I can say.” Lips pursed, he shook his head. “Health insurance needs to be affordable and readily available. But as my presentation just demonstrated, we also have to find a solution that won’t bankrupt our government in the long term. That’s a tough challenge, but it’s one my Republican colleagues and I are more than willing to take on. We’ll keep working on it until we find the right answer. For you, and for everyone.”
He paused, clearly waiting for applause. When it didn’t come, he turned back to Elizabeth. “What’s your question, ma’am?”
She was breathing fast, but she didn’t avert her gaze from the congressman. After one more squeeze of James’s hand, she began talking again.
“Let me tell you a little about my family medical history, Congressman. My Grandma Stone died of breast cancer before I was even born. My father didn’t talk about it much, but from what I hear, she had a lump under her arm the size of a grapefruit before she went to a doctor, and by then it was too late. She was dead before my dad even graduated from college.” Her fingers had turned cold against his once more. He covered them with his free hand, surrounding her as best he could as she spoke. “Grandma Barker had a mastectomy in her late forties. She survived for a couple more decades before she got lung cancer.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Both of them were smokers, unlike my mom. And my mother never got breast cancer, although she had a few questionable mammograms over the years. My sisters haven’t had any issues either. But you can understand why I’ve always been concerned about breast cancer. Terrified of it, actually.”
He’d had no idea. None.
“Last month, I—” She paused. “I found a lump in my right breast while I was showering. But I don’t have health insurance, and I wasn’t comfortable going into debt to pay for a mammogram.”
James must have made some sort of sound, because she stopped speaking for a moment and glanced down at him. With a nod, he encouraged her to keep going, but he barely heard her next few words.
When the fuck had Elizabeth lost her insurance? And why hadn’t she said something to him? He could have paid her premium. He could have paid for a fucking mammogram. Shit, he’d have begged her to take his money and go to the damn doctor.
They’d been friends for decades. Unlike most of their circle, she hadn’t blinked when he’d decided to shift from teaching English to painting houses. She’d tolerated Viv’s abuse and tried to stay close to them both, even in the midst of all the alcohol-soaked drama. She brought him homemade soup when he came down with a cold or fever. She baked him cookies for every conceivable holiday—including Arbor Day, for Christ’s sake—and fed him basically every time she saw him. He figured he could blame ninety percent of his belly on her, and the other ten percent on the Rita’s frozen custard place near his house.
She’d been a steady, supportive, undemanding presence in his life almost as long as he could remember.
And she’d been without insurance